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THE MINOR DRAMA. 

©tie a^ctfnfl iEUftfon. 
No. XCII. 



THE 



MILLER'S MAID; 

A MELO-DRAMA U TWO ACTS. 

FOUNDED ON BLOOMFIELD's POEM OF THAT NAME, AND THE SONGS 
PKINCIPALLY SELECTED FROM HIS WORKS. 



BY JOHN FAUCIT SAVILLE, 

Author of " Justice," a Musical Drama, in three Acts — "Cinderella " 

"Charles the Bold "—"Fair Rosamond "—"(Edipus "— 

"Plutarch Abridged," S;c., i^c. 



A description of the Costume — Cast of the Charactcra— Entrances and Exits- 
Relative Positions of the Perfoniiers on the Stage, and the whole of tho 
Stage Business, 



AS PERFORMED AT ALL THE 

PRINCIPAL ENGLISH AND AMERICAN THEATRES. 



NEW YORK: 

SAMUEL FRENCH, 
122 Nassau Street, (Up Stairs.) 



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Costume. — (The Miller's Maid.j 



MILLER — Drab coat, red waistcoat, and drab breeches, striped 
stockings black shoes and buckles. 

GILES — While countryman's jacket, leather breeches, colored stock- 
ings and shoes. 

GEORGE-^White trowsers, check shirt, and bluejacket. 

MATTY MARVELLOUS— Short smock-frock, uitli charity boy'a 
breeches, stockings, &c. — half miller half charity boy. 

GRANGER — Old soldier's coat, white kerseymere breeches and waist- 
coat, long black gaiters, shoes and buckles. 

GAMEKEEPER — Corderoy breeches, long leather gaiters, and fus- 
tian shooting jacket. 

DAME — Brown stuff gown, flowered petticoat and apron. 
PHEBE — Chintz gown and w^hite petticoat. 



STAGE DIRECTIONS. 



L, means First Entrance Left. R. First Entrance Right. S. E. L. 
Second Entrance, Left. S. E. R. Second Entrance, Right. U. E. L. 
Upper Entrance, Left. V. E. R. Upper Entrance, Right. C. Centre. 
L. C. Left Centre. R. C. Right of Centre. T. E. L. Third Entrance 
Left. T. E. R. Third Entrance, Right. C. D. Centre Door. D. R. 
Door Right. D. L. Door Left. U. D. L. Upper Door, Left. U. D. R. 
Upper Door, Right. 

\* The reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience* 



THE MILLER'S MAID. 



ACT L 

SCENE I. — [Half dark.] Opens with the gradual dispersing of the 
mists of morning twilight, the rising beams of the sun breaking oc- 
casionally through — on one side of the stage the body of a large 
Mill, mill stream and flood gates, l. h., the water in places gushing 
through them, the stream meanders off at the back of the stage, over 
which in the distance is thrown a rustic stone bridge — on the oppo- 
site side to the Mill, and nearly on a line with it, the Miller's house, 
R, H. — the perspective filled up with cornfields, rural and picturesque 
scenery, ^'c. — Music. — One of the shutters, l. b.. of the Millis opened 
and Giles looks out. 

Giles. So the rain be gone off at last, and it be almost daylight. 
Pl)ebe be'nt stirring yet. No wonder I be always up first in the vil- 
lage, for I do scarcely sleep for thinking of her. Ah ! life's a burthen 
without her, and I'll make up ray mind to tell her so at once. 

[-4s he retires from the shutter, the curtains of a windoiv in the Mil- 
ler's house, R. H. are ivithdrawn, the casement opened, and Phebe 
looks from it, surveys the Mill ivith apparent disappointment, then 
reclines her cheek upon her hand — the door of the Mill is nov) opened 
and Giles comes out from it, as he approaches the front of tiie stage, 
another shutter of the Mill opposite Phebe' s window is opened, and 
George looks from it — Phebe and George recognise, and express by 
gestures their love for each other. 

Giles. Yes, ray raind be made to it, and Phebe shall declare for 

George or nie ; and if for hira why But I can't think of hira with 

terajjer. Once she were kind to me, and niight have had me, when 
just in the nick, master brings home this sailor, George, and ever sin 

that day [Turning towards her window, sees it open.] Ha! she 

be up, and now we are alone, I'll ease my mind at once. [As he ap- 
proaches to address her, observes George conversing with her, watches 
them a moment, struggling ivith his jealousy, which at length appears 



THE miller's maid. 



to overcome him.] Cross'd again ! zounds, tlie sight of him do always 

set my blood a heating. I never see him but lon^r to He slnn'f 

have her I'll die first and so I shall Fm sure, for it be now too fa n 
that Pbebe loves lum^ [Throws himself on a bench atthe ccUagedoor 
K. H. George comes frovi the Mill, and approaches Phche\, windoiv 
Giles, whose jealousy has been working him to an instant decision 
starts up as Phebe retires, and George co'mes for ward. \ Yes xeHf 
I'ni to be witliout her, so shall he-his life or mine ' ^ ' 

Geo. A good morning, Giles, 

Giles, To thee it may be, not to me. Lookee, Geo erg ! Ion- before 
you came here I saw Phebe, and I loved her. I believe she S't 
dishke me, and but for you she nught have been mine I fed I ca 't 

^^V^'r K""rf''Xlf /'r /^ ^^'' ^^olUr-they struggle-the Miller enter- 
mg, R. n.,ftom the house, comes between them, and separates them. 

Mil Hold thee, Giles ! hold ! I say. Thee bes't an honest lad and 
a good servant, but passion runs away with thee too oft. Georae tl ou 
art a good lad too, and must forcxive him ucoi^e tLou 

Geo. With all my heart, sir. 1 have long observed with sorrow his 
growmg annnosity to me; but as I suffer mvself from the same now 
er u eau.e, know how to make excu.es for anotlK^r fo who ca see 
Phebe and not love her ^ 

i^Jy^^"'"*^''-^ '"' """ ^'""' '"'"= "^'- f™-" ■»« "-hile I can 

Mil [Checking him.] What right? 

Giles. That of loving her first.'' 

Geo The greater good fortune yours, who had an onnortunitv af 
obtanung, before I had the happiness of seeing her IlTrvo made 
her your w.ie, you had closed the door to future advances b hit 

hono;^'^"'';^'' ^ ^""^"'^"^ ^^'""^^" ''' the honorab e pS\m eve V 
honest heart has an equal right to contend for ^^ 

sign he': ta^ly!''' '''^' ^"'^ ^ "^'^^ ^""^^"^^ '' '''''^' ^hee-Fll not re- 
_ Mil. Giles, at the best, thee we'rt always passionate now thep art 

Giles. Aye, aye, master. 

mi Tell me what dost intend by marryin^r Phebe ^ 
Giles, ntend ! why to be happy with her ' ' 

Ar^' yJ^^'^'^'.^'Pii'^g him.] Never, not while T 

Giles. Eh 7 

J/i7. Well! 

GiZ^s. Well! [A pause.] 



6 THE miller's maid, 

Mil. Would that make thee happier 1 Would that make Phehe love 
thee, because thou liadst killed the man she did love. [Another pause.] 
Coiue, come, leave it to the wench herself, meaiiLime shake hands, 
lads, and be friends. 

Giles. No, I tliank thee. 

Geo. Indeed I hari rather 

MU. [Aside io George] Harkee, thee lovest Phebe — if 3'ou thought 
she prefened Giles it would make thee miserable. 

Geo. jMiserable ! it would make me mad. 

Mil. What do'st tliink then he must feel who loves her also, and yet 
susj)ects her preference for you. Think ye he mus'nt feel it too 1 

Geo. [After a moments pause.] Giles, there's my hand. [Giles re- 
fuses it. 

Mil. Take it Giles — how ! harkee, this in thine ear, [Aside to him.] 
the girl has iiot declared for either yet, therefore thy chance may be 
as o()od as his. Be friends, and I will promise this — this day she shall 
decide for one, and him she do decline, must think no more about her. 

Giles. One can't help thinking, master. 

Mil. Then he may think on some one else that will be kinder to him. 
I've enough to do to keep these chapes from quarrelling. Come, no 
more ado, but get to your work, it shall be as 1 say, and look, the sun 
be uj). To the mill, lads, and to work, 

[The sun hy this time has risen and illuminated the whole landscape, 
wliich in tlie front and hack ground is now all in tnotion. Giles 
and George return to the mil, and opening various shutters, the 
whole machinery of the mill is seen at work through all the nume- 
rous openings. George 2'>crceived employed in one story. Giles in 
another. Tlie different lacks are worked, the water rushes and falls, 
and various barges work their way itp the stream. 

Mil. So. now the bustle of the day begins, the sun has spread tho 
signal, and yonder go the village workmen, who celebrate its rising 
and its setting, opening and closing their emploj'ments with contented 
minds and grateful hearts to him who sanctioned earthly labor with 
his own. 

[Sits down at door of house to tahle, icith hook and accounts. The 
music runs into the symjphony of Puebe's song who enters, r. h. 

SONG— Phebe. 

How bright with pearl the eastern sky. 

How glorious far and wide. 
Yon lines of golden clouds that lie. 

So peaceful side by side. 

Green hill that shad'st the valley hero. 

Thou bcarst upon thy brow, 
The only wealth to Poebc dear; 

And all shell ever know. 



THB miller's maid. 7 

[At the end the miller closes his accounts and accosts her. 

Mil. Good morning, Phebe. [Comes r.] Whither art trudo^ino- 

wench 7 =' °' 

Phehe. Over to the ham, sir, to seek for new laid eggs. Your 

good dame complained last night, and eat no supper, the^-eforo per- 

ha])s for breakfast 

Mil. You thought she might be tempted to partake, if she beheld 
them on the table. Good wench, just so thou hast tricked me oft to 
eat when my late sickness shut my heart to food. Thou art a good 
wench, and yet thee makest sad havoc Phebe. 

Phehe. Havoc, sir ! Indeed I'm careful, very careful. Havoc, sir ! 
in whatl 

Mil. Why, in all our young men's hearts here, and I'm afraid, 
Phebe, [taking her hand,] thine own has not escaped scot free. Well,' 
well, I've done, and yet 'tis fit I talk with thee— not now. but soon. 
There get thee gone— but harkee, keep thine eves off the mill, or I 
shall get no work done there. [As she 2)asses the mill George salutes 
her.] Rot thee! inind thy work do. [Throiving his hat at George.] 
Oh, this love— this love, it's a main foe to business. [Hurrying music. 
Dame enters from the house and crosses the stage.] Why, how now 
Damei thee look'st angry sure, and why this haste "? ' 

Dame. Angry, forsooth! look there, [Pointing to one shutter in the 
mid still closed,] neither his eyes or the shutters opened vet. 

3Iil. Whose? 

^ame Matty's. Aye, thou'st an idle graceless varlet in that lad. 

Mu. Lazy, I fear. But who knows, 'tis scarcely three days since 
I took the boy from the village workhouse and the parish school 
where having but newly learnt to read, (and the only one of his kin 
that ever did) he now in pride do give his mind to nought but books 

Dame. And what books ] Why, children's histories and fairy tales 
which ail go down for truth. Aye, aye, books in their way be well 
enough, but if we read not the right sort, they oft do more harm than 
good I fear. 

Mil. That's like enough to be the case here. Dame, for as he were 
never told what books were best, he reads none but such as pleases 
him ; and so proud that he can read. They have half turned his brain, 
1 tear already. ' 

Dame. Poor simpleton ! and he's not a grain to spare. But I have 
lipoilL his studies for the time to come. 

Mil. Why, what hast done 1 no mischief. 

I^ame. No, only thrown his lioard of books into the fire. 

Mu. What did'st that for, Dame 7 

Dame. To teach him he must earn his bread by labor ere he eats it. 
loo many I fear, with too little learning and less of sense do waste 
their time m reading or in writing books which were far better spent 
in honest, industry. ^ 

Mil. Well, but thou didn'st burn them alH 

Dame All. Peter Wilkins, Seven Champions, Friar Bacon, Fair 
Hosamond, Robinson Crusoe, and half a hundred more 



g THE miller's maid. 

Mil Come, thee should have left him one oi- so. 

Dame I verilv believe tlie-varlet stole one from the flames. But 
^Yliere is hel never at his work. [Calling.] Giles! Giles '. step thee, 
and one voun<^ :Mattv's window there. [Giles going by the outside 
railing of the mill, forces a shutter nearly at the top, when Matty i5 
seen seated upon S'ome sacks, l. h., so deeply intent on his book, that he 
is roused by nothing passing around him. The remains of a candle 
burning on another sack as though he had been up all night.] There, 
there! husband, dost see 1 Grant me patience, all might have been 
bimit in their beds. Let me come near, I'll rouse the varlet. 

[Music. — Exit into mill, l. h. 

Mil. Well, well, Dame ; I shall leave thee to manage the scholar, I 
must iook after the mill, else between love and learning the grist may 
grind itself I fear. 

[The dame arrives at Matty's side before he is apprised of her intent, 
and with one blow knocks him off the sack— he instantly scrambles 
up his book and escapes through the shutter, where he is enabled to 
keep his mist)-ess at bay till she retires — he scrambles down the out- 
side of the mill and comes to the front of the stage, where she fol- 
lows him. 

Dame. Give it me— give me that book, I say. How came you by 
it, sirrah 1 

Mat. Saved it from fire and brimstone, mistress, your fury and the 
kitchen liames, v/here all my valued library was destroyed. 
Dame. Library, indeed! *But what is it you have saved 1 
Mat. [Earnestly.] By the greatest mercy, Philip Squall. 
Dame. I'll make thee squall, varlet, and thou waste's thy time read- 
ing such nonsense. 

iMat. Nonsense ! "Why, mistress, it's all true, it names the very 

place he lived in. An unknown island. Wonderful man ! he kept 

Dame. He would "st have kept thee. 

Mat. Would'st he indeed ! Why he kept a monkey wb.o made his 
beds, drank his wine and did all his work, so that he had nothing to 
do. Wonderful man ! Look here, mistress, here's his picture. [Shows 
frontispiece.] I scrambled it out of the fire just as his legs were burnt 
oil", but I saved his bare body and his bear-skin breeches. Look, 
mistress. 

Dame. [Stealing behind ajid seizing it.] And look, master, for it's 
the last you'll see of it. 

Mat. [Earnestly and half in tears.] Why, mistress, thou wouldn'st 
now-^now thou wouldn'st burn that too 1 
Dame. Every leaf. 

Mat. [In horror.] What a maker of martyrs ! why, mistress, what 
can you possibly expect? 'Twas but yesterday you put Christendom 
in liames, and burnt its seven champions ! ram d the red-hot poker 
through Peter Wilkins ! fried eggs with Friar Bacon ! frizzled Fair 
Rosamond! and now, [bursting into tears,] inflammable cruelty! 
you'd boil the pot with Phillip Squall. Yes, every bit of him will go 
now ! body and breeches ! wonderful man ! wicked woman I 



THE miller's maid. 9 

Dame. Mark me sirrah ! But no — I'll first try kindness with thee ; 
be a good lad. Come, read and welcome, when thy work is done ; and 
to encourage thee, I'll buy thee books that shall improve thv mind. 
Nay, if tlioull promise to be diligent I'll not burn this, and it shall be 
thine again after a good day's work, [lie stretches out Ms hand for it. 

[Exit Dame into cottage, r. n. 

Mat. Ah ! I should be sorry to make such a good day's Avork, mis- 
tress, as you did with my library. Poor ignorant woman! calls read- 
ing wasting time. How often have I heard schoolmaster say— "Eead 
ancient history," and what's more ancient than the history of Philip 
Squall 1 It's so long since he died, that nobody can sav whether he 
lived at all. It's always the case, masters and mistresses don't like 
their servants to know more than they do themselves. Ah ! merit, 
merit. One book I read says that merit gets over all difflculties. Ho\v 
shall I get over mine 1 I have it ! a great thought ! a proof of merit ! 
my books are gone, I can't read history, I'll invent ! I'll write one ' 
I forgot J I can't write, another difficulty. How will merit get over 
that 1 

Enter George with a letter from mill, l. h. 1st e. 

Geo. Now to get this letter conveved to Phebe. Ha ! Matty here ' 
no one will suspect him. Matty, my good lad, can I trust you'^ 

3Icit. With any thing, with every thing, as Philip Squall did the 
monkey. 

Geo. You have not been long at the mill, but you know our miller's 
maid— Phebe the fair. 
Mat. As Fair Eosamond. Oh, what a creature! 
Geo. Isn't she 1 
Mat. Oh, how I loved her once ! 

lov^r-i ^^^^ ^^^^^' ^"^^^^ ' ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^'^^ ^^^' 5'^^^ 

Mat. Why, Fair Rosamond. Ah ! manv a night I've laid awake 
and criect about her, and should to this day, if 1 had not happened to 
read about .Jane Shore. 

Geo. And she rivalled Fair Rosamond in vour trood graces eh '? 

Mat Rless you, then I didnt know which 1 liked best. Which do 
you think was prettiest! 

Geo. Indeed I cannot tell. 

Mat. No ! Do read ancient history. Why, Fair Rosamond. Ah 
poor soul ! my heart aches when I think of her, she was used almost 
as bad as mi.tiess served her t'other day. Queen mnov pisoned, Mis- 
tress burnt her ; burn me if I don't christen mistiess. Queen Elinor 
lor lier cruelty. Poor Rosamond ! wonderful woman! 

Geo. Aye, and you are a wonderful lad. 

Mat. Yes, I've made up mv mind to that. 
v^v\illn— ^''^''" ^"^ '"^ ''''''' moment, this letter which I have just 

^Geo. wL;?T' ''''' '''''"• ^^'^''^ ' P^'^ ' [Sighing. 

Mat. That I can't. Oh, if I could ! if I could. 



1Q THE miller's MAID. 

Geo. Nay, if it will so materially serve you, and you will deliver 
this safe for me. Im sure I'll write any thing for you, you wish. 

Mat. Will you 1 now I see difficulties are nothing to merit— well 
then, I'll invent and you shall write. 

Geo. What ] 

Mat. Histories. 

Geo. Nonsense. 

Mat. Non Get another currier. 

\Liiignanihj rciarniag the letter, and, going up stage. 

Geo. [Aside.] I must humor him. AVell, well, FH write any thing 

you wish. , , x • * 

Mat Ave, it he easv enough to write any thing, hut then to invent. 
Ah ! that 'requires a h'ead. Now, shall it he a history or a fairy tale 1 
I've head enough for hoth. Yes, yes, I think I have a head ; grant 
me fortuue, hat a tale. A striking ! horrid ! agonising ! heart-rend- 
iwy^. Oh, grant me one request ! an interesting tale. [Exit, R- h. 

l?eo. Simpleton! But he will he the least susi)ected, and I hope will 
find means to deliver my letter unknown to Giles, whose jealousy 
breaks out into ferocitv. But now he left the mill and meditates, I 
fear, some plan inimical to Phehe's hai)piness And then the squire, 
there too I am alarmed. Ah ! this love, it sees so many obstacles to 
happiness, and where the heart of a worthy girl is its object. Perhaps 
it's right it should be so, for the more difficulty we have in gaining, 
the more highly we are apt to estimate its virtues when in possession 
of it. " •' C^^*^' ^- H- 

SCENE II. — Copse — rustic pathway, terminated hy a gate — distant 
view of the mill — brook, ^'c. 

Enter Gamekeeper, r. h. 

Ga7ne. No game comes amiss to my master, the squire. Women 
are as welcome as woodcocks, though, thank heaven! not so plentiful, 
for as I have the care of both, and find the girls most difficult to catch 
I don't care how seldom they start in view. Now, however, nothing 
will serve him but the miller's maid. I've laid a plan ; she has two 
lovers at the mill. Giles, the most jealous, must be persuaded, to run 
away with her. On the road, my master intercepts and gets her from 
him. Good ! Giles still has the blame, my master the girl. That's 
Avhat I call plotting like a statesman. But here she comes, I'll talk 
to her a little myself, I shall then he able to judge whether she's 
worth the trouble' she's giving us. [Gamekeeper retires. 

Enter Phebe, l. h, 

SONG— Phebe. 

What was it roused my soul to love, 
What made the simple brook so dear 

It glided like the weary dove ; 
And never brook seem'd half so clear 



THE JirtiLER's MAID. 11 

There faint beneath the fervid sun, 

I gazed in ruminating mood, 
For who can see llie current run, 

And snatch no feast of mental food. 

Cool passed the current at my feet. 
Its shelving brink for rest was made, 

But every ch;irm is incomplete, 
Wliene'er it lacks another's shade. 

Game. [Corning forward, r. h.] Very pretty ! oh, the voice will do 
for us, and so Avill the person ; but jjorhaps the girl's a fool after all. 
I'll try her sense. How d'ye do my dear \ Come, come, stay where 
j'ou are, I'm your friend. 

Phehe. If you are, sir, you'll suffer me to pass. 

Game. Shan't go till you have heard me. 

Phehe. Sir, I have other employment now, than listening to folly. 

Game. Aye, aye, but none so gratifying, girl as hearing your own 
praise. 

Phehe. Yes, sir — that of having deserved it Leave me. 

[Crosses him, r. 

Game. Upon my word the girl has sense, too mucli for my master, 
'twould be tin-own away upon him, I shall reserve her for myself. 

[Exit, L. H. 
Phehe is going on the other side and meets Matty, r. ii., who is most 
consequentially wrapt vp in his own cogitations. 

Mat. Once on a tin^e there was a king — no — a prince — no, a giant; 
130 — well, how veiy surprising that I sliould he !so stui)id this morn- 
ing. Well for the life of it, my head can't hit upon a tale — oh, for 
an object I [Striking his head.] Critical moment! There was a king 
who set out 

Phehe. Hey day ! Where are you going, Matty 1 

Mat. On a journey to the Black mountains. [Not hearing her. 

Phehe. And pray what may you be going to do there 1 

Mai. [Still absorbed.] To combat with a giant with three heads. 

Phehe. [Aside.] Poor lad, it you had one with any sense in it, it 
would be better for you. Well, xMatty, and what will you do next"? 

3fai. Keep a princess. 

Phehe. Indeed ! and what will you do with her 1 

Mat. Treat her cruelly — in 

Phehe. [Pointing to letter.] Pray, what's that you have in your 
hand ? 

J^Jat. A brazen castle with forty gates. 

Phehe. Why, Matty ! He doesn't hear me, Matty, i say. 

[Jogging him. 

Mat. Ileigho ! How d'ye do ? Oiitical moment. I'm composing. 
Great ! Sublime ! — don't bother. 

Phehe. Nonsense. Who's that letter for, I say 1 

Mat Letter ! Oil, iiow I rpmemuer. Why it's for you. 



12 THE jnLLEB'S MAID. "^ 

Phebe. And pray who does it come from 1 

Mat. Mum ! a mvstery. 

Phehe. Then as I don't deal in them, I shall not take it. From Giles, 
I suppose ; or, probably, from the stranger who was here just now, 
either may have suborned this simpleton. And i)ray, master Matty, 
have you no better work you could employ yourself upon ] 

Mat. Work ! oh, such alone ! I'm about it now. Wonderful work .' 
But then I want a proper object for my talons to fix upon. 

Phehe. Tliai won't be your mistress's case, the moment she gets 
sight of you, I fancy. 

Mat. Don't tease me about Queen Eleanor, but take the letter. 

Phcbe. Indeed I shall not. 

Mat. No ! Why it comes from ♦ 

Phehe. I don't want to hear, Nor wdl I take mysterious letters 
from any one, unless to deliver to your master, that he may know hov.' 
3'ou are employed. 

Mat. He know how I am employed ! nobody knows ! I don't know 
myself. But come, my time's too precious to waste on you. I want 
a horrid object. Will you take this letter ] 

Phehe. No, I positively will not. 

Mat. No ] then all my study's thrown away. He was only to write 
for me in case she took the letter. Ah, genius ! you may hide your 
head, for you've lost your tale. Yes, George will never write it now. 

Phehe. George ! Did — did — George write it 1 Did George send that 
letter, Matty ] I think I will take it. 

Mat. Yes, I know you will take it, and give it to your master you 
said. No, I shall destroy it, because George said it was of consequence 

Phehe. How provoking ! but there is but one way of obtaining it 
W^ell, Matty, since you will not give me it, I sliall keep to my.self the 
two histories and fairy tales I meant to have purchased for you at 

Mat. Purchase history ! phoo ! I can make 'em. I'm making one 
uow, that George is to write for me. 

Phehe. On condition you delivered this letter. Well, give it me, and 
when he writes one, I promise you to write another. 

3Iat. Will you ] What two histories 1 Take the letter ; but then 
I shall want two tales. Let's see, one shall be long ! tother short ! 
one interesting ! t'other striking ! one horrid ! t'other captivating ! 
Wiiat a head 1 must have. I'll set about one directly, 

[Matty retires to compose, l. 

Phehe. [After reading the letter.} Ah, George, thy warnings are 
needless, and I hope thy fears ; but I w ill store thy caution where I 

have already deposited esteem, and ah ! yonder comes Giles, 1 ^\ ill 

avoid him, for as our inclinations do not meet, neither shonld we en- 
counter ; for when once a female deems it pro])er to decline the ad- 
dresses of a lover, to throw herself voluntarily in his way is but exci- 
ting feelings 'tis a cruelty to i)rotract. Exit, k. u. 

Mat. [Comes forward.] Writing histories an't so easy as 1 thought. 
Ah, the day when its finished ! there'll be a day ! Oh, happy the 
man who first sees the end of his tale. 



THE ]yiILLER's MAID. ^18 

SONG— Matty. 
WriUenhy W. Arnold^ Esq. Tune — Young Lobski. 

When little I went to old WliackemweH's school, 
Who can'd me, and call'd me a dunce and a fool ; 
But when I grew larger lalter'd things quite, 
And soon learn'd to read though I never could write. 

I became quite a dab at my spelling d'ye see. 
But for pothooks and hanjzcrs they so bothered mej 
So says 1 as for pothooks I'll try one or two, 
But as to the hangers I'm hang'd if I do. 

Now my studies are ended, I'll try just for fun, 

If I cannot turn author as others have done ; 

For I'm told that to write what a book now contains, 

Requires no wonderful portion of brains. 

Some people now only write books I am told, 

Not that books may be ready, but that books may be sold ; 

And as heads have so little to do with the sale, 

I'm determined the world to surprise with ray tale. 

[Exit, R. H. 

Re-enter Gamekeeper and Giles, l. n. 

Game. There, you see she avoids you ; George is the lad that car- 
ries her. 

Giles. Pie shan't. 

Game. You can only prevent it by the plan I advised. 

Giles. What! run away with herl 

Game. Aye, that's the way to jiain her. 

Giles. Her person — but I want her heart. 

Game. Oh, that will soon follow, she will be glad to marry you to 
save her reputation. Come, no dallying, it must be done to-night, she 
may declare for George to-morrow, and the following day the old 
folks give him the mill ; so by delay you are choused out of your wife 
and fortune. 

Giles. Rot the fortune ! 

Game. But not the wench, eh ! I see you love her, and she will 
soon return it ; d'ye think she won't pardon a crime her own beauty 
caused 1 but however, do as you will, two days will see her your wife 
or his. 

Giles Mine, mine! 

Game. A little decision only makes her so. 

Giles. [Firmhj.] I'll do't. 

Garae. And here's my hand to assist you. 

Giles. No, I thankee, it's a bad act. I've a reason for being a rogue, 
80 I suppose has every body, and as I don't know yours, I'd better 
trust to myself. 



14 THE miller's maid. 

Oame. Ob, I've the same reason as yours, a petticoat, and want 
the same assistance to carry it off that I offer you ; you know Susan 
Fellows 1 

Giles. You wouldn't carry her offl 

Game. "Why not 1 

Giles. Why, because she's a poor blind father who she do support 
by her work. 

Game. Aye, but she's a pretty girl. 

Giles. Come, come, thee musn't think on't. 

Game. Think on't ! it's all settled — my mind's made up. 

Giles. What ! to steal her from her father, and thee expect me to 
assist '? 

Game. Certainly. 

Giles. I'd see thee hang'd, shot, drown'd first. 

Game. Why, zounds ! an't I to assist thee 1 

Giles. Don't then — don't. Thee shan't. It's a bad deed, and I'll do 
it myself. I know its bad, but I love Pliebe, and when its done I'll 
marry her. Love her! die to make her happy. But thee — tell thee 
what ; if thee attempt to rob the poor blind man of his only nurse — 
his prop — his child ! hantr me, if I wouldn't seize thee by the throat, 
and jump with thee into the mill-streaia : nor loose my gri[)e till one 
or both were drowned. {Crosses to r.] So — there — I ha' told you my 
mind ; so now do as thee lik"st. [Exit, r. ii. 

Game. What a brute ! rustic prejudices ! living wholly in the coun- 
try. Well, one of my schemes must be given up, either my girl or my 
master's. I would very willingly give the squire the preference here, 
but I see that by serving him 1 avenge him. Giles must be soothed — 
I must appear to relent, for Phebe must be carried off and by him. 1 
must assist in order not to lose sight of her, and when once in our 
power, Giles may, if he pleases, return and throw himself into the mill- 
stream ; but were I to accompany him, I fear it would be throwing a 
damp on my spirits of enterprise for ever after. [Exit, l. n. 

SCENE III — The Miller's kitchen — a large table set out for the dinner 
of the workmen, who are seated aroiind it — George and Giles on 
either side, both apparently abstracted ?n thought — a smaller table, 
at which are seated the Miller a?id his Wife — Phebe pensively 
leaning on the Dame's chair. 

Mil. There, thank heaven for a good meal ! and now get tliee to 
labor with merry grateful hearts, and so we'll meet again with hearty 
appetites. 

[All the work people how. ayid retire, d. f. except Giles and George who 
with Phebe appears lost to every thing around them. 

MR. Dame ! [Rises and draws Dame forward.^ I say Dame ! 
[Pointing aside to them.] More dumplings saved. 

Dame. Alack, alack ! poor things ! what can they live upon *? 

Mil. Love, Dame, love ; and since it makes folks too lazy to earn 
their victuals, it be right it should take away all appetite to eat 'em. 



THE miller's maid. 



'?;rwL'frcVlTa'" 'loured of that often, H don't stop with 
3hL ^^ hat, lo\o . it a o'mischief in a short time. 

"■•^X,:r MWcMelf id^^d! trk attench. Poov thing, .ny heart do 
'"m^'AhT'tis high time the girl were cured. I must be her doctor, 

' r>^. Thee, cure a girl of lovx ! who* do'st thee talk ahout . 
Mil ItelUhee,rilcureher. Illmairv her. 

X>a?H«. liulced thee won't. Phebe brines thee hero 

MU. Co-.con.e c.^ ,, ,, j 

my great Chan, t^ f ^^^^^^.^..^iiair. [P/ie6e feZus/ies a?ti fenngrsi^.J 

My great ^l'^^"^.\«'^,^^^\7"'VhJbe--ThaU sad complaints to make. 
Now thee be quiet, dame, rneuc ^ n^^ 

P/^e&e Of me, sir ! in what have 1 oftenclcrn 

has stolen 

g^^- \ Stolen ! 

i^ofl'Tiy r^gJe'^-panrbeVet.orrn send thee out of 

court. I say one of thee have stolen 

2^.?- \ What, sir '? 

.?;. \ll poor Phehe's spirits fronr -. H- l,fth_appetit<^nay, 

*;^"|ft&---j-SSSl^-eS: 

?re"com:.T,S:o^tbo;;^y:gi" don't be ashamed to name an hon- 

est man thv choice and make hnn happy. 
Fhehe. Spare me ! I beseech you. 

?«r^Idtdrm^rshe^'^"too'^«c^t'l?haif. she'., die .ith it ere 

strongly press tl,eeno«^ thn^J'. 1 warrant me, to fix upon the man. 
thee must be her choice. 

Dame. Gilbert! Gilbert! thee art mad. 



M 



THE MILLKR S MAID. 



Mil. Why, what be the matter now ■? ^ 
JJame. Matter ! thee liast decided wrori)?. 
Mil. Oh, thea George be tlie man after all. 
Gile^i. [Aside.] Not while I live! 

TJame. Why, hasirt seen that some time ? pshaw! thou a judj^e of 

love ! heaven help the man. Come, come, PJiebe, it be all over now. 

Geo. But will not Pliebe by a word, confirm my happiness 1 

Piiehe. lam an orphan, George, beholden for\all I now enjoy to 

this worthy pair. Beholden not only for the means of existence, but 

wh;iUs dearer to an honest mind— the precepts of relijTion and virtue. 

Mil. There, now thee should st be silent ; thou cans't speak 

Pkche. And will be heard. In you I have beheld the exami)le of 
bei;evo!encc ! from you imbibed the stimulus to active industrv I en- 
joyed ail the blessings of a child ; and now, as would beconie your 
d;!Ui>}iter, in all that may concern my future welfare, submit myself 
to your counsel and advice. 

Mil. And thee shall have it, as thou wert indeed rav own. Giles, 
thou art an honest lad, as such we all respect thee; but, thou see'st 
the wench's mind and— and— and— so thee can'st have her. 
Gile^. [Aside, musing.] Hum ! We don't know that yet. 
Pkche. Giles, I ever shall esteem thee as my friend— nay brother. 
As such, will you not give me your hand? 
Giles. [After a pause.] There, there ! 
P/iebe. Aiid George, will you not give it him ? 
Giles. No — I — no. 

Mil. What, man! can'st refuse the wench ? Whv, should aught hap- 
pe;i to break this match, thou bear'st her next good will, and thin<Ts 
be far from settled yet. ° 

Gile3. Dost mean that she would marry me, should any thincr cross 
tiie match v/ith George 7 •' => 

Mil I do. We scarce know aught about him, vet, and when we do 
perchance, may like him less. 
Giles. Aye, but Phebe. 

Mil. Conje hither, girl. It rests with thee to make these rivals 
friends ! or kee{) them enemies. ' 

Phebe. Does it, sir ] Say how ? 

MJ. By promising it, thou refuse the one to take the other. 
Puehc. \ ou are my father — speak for me. 

Mil. I will; and in thy name do promise it: so now, Giles .rive thy 
hand and jom with us, lad, to bless our Phebe's husband, whoe'er he 
be. [Aside-to hiia.] Come., who knows yet what the chances may be 
ior you. •' 

Giles. I do, what they slian be. [Aside.] With all my heart I do. I 
do bless Phebe's husband, whoe'er he be. 

[Having pronounced thtj emphatically and with double meaning, he 
passes with exidiation to his scat. 

Mil. And now, George, before that matters do proceed, 'tis fit that 
thee and Phebe should know each other; there should be no disguise- 
meat m the married state, where folks do look for happiness. * 



\ 



THE miller's maid. 17 

Dame. Phebe, stand forth, my girl, and tell thy honest tale, such 
as thoii told us that night,— tliat dreadful nii^it ! thou first sought 
shelter here. Ah, I see thou dost remember it. 

[Phebe with throbbing recollection, seizes, and pi'esses the hands of 
the jMiller and his wife. 

Phebe. Remember it! Oh, sir, the impression on the grateful heart 
being ever newly writ, and newly read, indents so deep a mould, tiiat 
nou^Iit but death can wipe the tablet clear. 

Mil. Come, come, I'll help thee. Listen, George. This girl, though 
by atfectiou ours, and from that affection, having borne our name, is 
not by tie of kindred. Five years before we met, I first beheld her — 
'twas on one summer's eve — and near the hour of rest, a gatheting 
storai approached our humble roof, threatening the country ri)und ; 
nor Dame nor I could think of rest, but anxious sat and listened. 

Dame. [With loaiaful recollection.] Alack! alack, the night ! 

Mil. I never shall forget it, dame ; nor thee — rooted in thy elbow 
chair, with eyes fixed!%n the hearth ; thy thoughts did wander lo 
thoise without a roof. Ah ! if ever thy husband read thy honest heart 
aright, "twas tlien. 

Dame. And if e'er thine beat in sympathy, 'twas then. I took tiiy 
hand, and looked upon thy face. Thee took thy pipe, thou know'st, 
and sought to hide it in tlie smoke. A sigh did blow it off; and tiien — 
aye, then ! I saw the tear of sympathy drop ! drop! from the steadfast 
uplift eye of pi'ayer. [Pause^^ The storm beat louder still ! we heard, 
or thought we heard, the scream of some poor child ! Then thee dashed 
thy pipe upon the ground, and listed the sound again ! it canie again, 
and nearer on our hearing ! As it api>roached, thee dropp'd upon thy 
knee, and begged of heaven to guide the sutierer to our door. 

Phebe. It did ! it did 1 for that poor child was I ! my feeble feet 
essayed thy tineshold ! my fainting voice asked mercy at thy door ! 
"which opened at the sound, for mercy dwelt v,-ithin, and ever with a 
■willing hand had lift the lulch to misery. 

Geo. But, Pliebe, say what could have driven thee forth on such a 
night, alone, and so 

PJiebe. George, the first deep trace my memory wears, pictures a 
mother's death. [George appears moved, asbij a sudden recollection.] 
My brother and myself, as orphans, lelt. her loss ; and both had cau.ie, 
for with her, went onr only tie of earthly kindred. Our father, (as I 
have heard,) a soldier, had long since died abroad. Ah ! we lingeied 
hand in hand about her grave, until the mould we knelt on banked 
up her humble monument. With swollen eyes and hands still locked 
iu each other's hold, we sought in vain our home. 'Twas sold ! none 
would receive us — until with sobbing hearts we sought a shelter in 
the parish workhouse. 

Geo. [Aside.] The workhouse too! 'tis strange. 

Phebe. Soon as my strength allowed it, I was sent to service ; when 
my mistress — but 1 will not dwell ui>on her cruelty — yet, still I strove 
to please, but all in vain ; and on the morning of that fearful night, 
(having unknowingly oflended) I received a punishment too severe 



18 THE miller's maid, 

even for the broken "Spirit of a parisli child to hear. Unknown to all 
I fied — fled here, unto the threshold of humanity, from whence the 
orplian's orisons shall never cease to rise for daily blessings on her 
beiiefuctors. 

Mil They have been heard, my child ; for ever since I became the 
orphan's frieiid,, lieaven has befriended me. 

Geo. [Aside.] Yes, every circumstance accords. Oh ! should it 
be ! liuL your brother, Phebe 1 

PJiehe. Though elder by a year than me, unable to protect, he left 
me in ilie parisli house, and went to sea. 

Mil. [As if from sudden thought.] To sea ! thou wert but just re- 
turned from sea, when I did meet thee, George. 

Geo. Not long escaped its fury, as you overtook me retrrning from 
a fruitless search after an early home and only, much loved sister, 
sir, who v\ej)t to service, and who ran away. The only tidings I 
could learn of my poor Phebe. 

Mil. Pliebe ! Did he say Phebe'? [Aside, ^ breathless expectation. 

Phebe. [Aside. j Ha ! no, no, no. Yet I leelsick at heart. 

JJame. 'I'Ijou had'st a sister named Phebe 1 [To Gewge. 

Mil. And you a brotlier, named George 1 

['To Phebe, both addressing them hastily at the same time. 

Phebe. Yes, yes ! but his mother did'nt die wlien he was young — 
they did not send him to tl;e parish workhouse ? 

Geo. Tl^ey did ! they did ! and o'er this arm did Phebe's little form 
hang lifeless oer her mother's grave. 

Phebe. Then thei e let it hang again. But, no — no — [Stopping in 
breathless agitation.] You — you — don't mean Phebe? — not Phebe 7 
ypeak ! — not Phebe [btth together.] Granger ? 

[Both pause transfixed. 

Phebe. Oh, God ! my brother! 

Geo. 'Tis she ! 'tis my sister ! 

[As they attempt to reach other^s each arms, Giles rushes doicn between 
them, exclaiming exultingly. 

Giles. Brother and sister ! Then she is mine indeed. My wife ! 
my wife ! 

[MiL^ic. — Catches her in his arms as she is falling, before she can 

reach George. 

[The First Act closes on the group, Phebe remaining senseless in the 
arms of the exulting Giles — George hanging over her in speechless 
agony. The Miller and his wife lost in admiration, with eyes and 
hands uplift to Providence, on either side, fill up the picture. 

END OF ACT I. 



THE miller's maid. 19 

ACT 11. 

SCENE T. — A rural landscajje, with a projecting pathway— Old 
GRAiiGEn sings without, r. n. , and then enters, dressed as an old 
soldier — he sings as he looks about him, then comes down pathway 
to f runt of stage. 

Gran. Life's like a sea in constant motion, 

Sojuetinies high, and sometimes low; 
Where every one must brave the ocean, 
Whatsoever winds may blow. 

Ah, life's a sea of trouble! at least it is to me. Tm always singin*?, 
because I'm always sad. Well, 'tis better than swearing — a man must 
veut his humor some Avay or other. 

There was a jovial beggar, 

He had a wooden leg ; 
Time, from his cradle, 

Had forced him to beg. 
And a begging we will go. 

Aye, faith ! and so must I. Heigho ! sad work, sad work ! to come 
home and find wife dead — children gone! and I well, well, think- 
ing won't make it better. 

A soldier and a sailor, 
A tinker and a tailor. 

Oh, if I sing a merry song, I know I'm getting sad ; and after all, why 
sIkjuUI 1 be sad] I've onlv three reasons for it — I've lost my wife — • 
lost my children — lost myself! — no, no, only part of myself ; but then, 
I've lost the means to support the other part. Damn it, I m gettuig 
sad again. 

The soldier di.sbanded. and forc'd for to beg. 
May talk of his wounds and sufferings hard ; 

Yet show but his scars and his bald wooden leg, 
He's sure of his country's love and regard. 

[Sits down on a bank, l. h., whistling and humming to himself. 

Enter Matty, r. ii.,much elated. 

Mat. I've got it ! I've got it ! I've got it ! I've got a tale — a won- 
derful tale! Let me see ! George and Phebe's mother died — went to 
workhouse : we'll leave out the workhouse — went to service — went to 
sea — stormy nijTht — thunder and lightning. Striking tale ! hired by 
miller — both at mill — fall in love. Sympathetic tale ! -Going to be 
married — and find out they are brother and sister. Wonderful tale ! 
ril print it ; but. first I must, write it. Oh, if I hadn't left ofi' writing 
before I came to my alphabet, I could have done it myself, and George 
now would hardly write his own tale. What must I do 7 

Gran. Hallo, my lad I where about am I 7 



20 ' THE filler's maid. 

Mat. Who's that ? Pho' ! don't tease me now. [Musing.] 
Gran. Wheveabouts am I ?— what ])art of the country i 
Mat. Wliy, this part. Why, hless me, an old sohlier come from the 
wars. Hey, master! could'st tell me some fine tales about battles I 
v.arrant. i-^v.^, x 

Gran. Oh, that I could, indeed 

Mat All, but what's your tale to mine ?— no compairson in the heau- 
t} ot the tlnnor^ All irue-ol my own invention. Can you write i 
Gran. [Bluffly.] Yes. 
Mat. Tisen I'll make your fortune. 

\j ,-1 '\,.^^^' ^. [Contemptuously. 

and uirn^ n^^eV' '"'''' ^'''' ^''"' ^'"^'"'^ '' '''''' '^ ^^^^ ^^^'^ 

9r'":\V^^^'^ ^'""^- -^"^ '"^^^' ^''^ ^'""^^ ^" n^^^^e my fortune ^ 
Jlcit. 1 11 mvent siorie.s, and you shall write them. 
Gran. Pshaw ! I^jJ father none of your lies. 
Mat. Lies ! bless you, my story's a true one. 
Gran. Of your own inventina.* 

A soldier, a sailor, 

A tinker, a tailor. 
Mat. ^^ hat a brufe ! but 111 try the effect of mv story on him if it 

my )v. n. I sny, don t go, I'm goin- to astojiish vou. I shall make 

he ban- s and an end on your head. Once on a tin^e Listen ' t^ilre 

as an oid man-[neithcr of them attend to each other, ]-no, no', i o -^f 

old woman, had a son a-id daughter. 

Gran. 'A cobbler there wat, and he lived in a stall 

nr.^ A l'""'' ^^'■^'^^J '''"1 ^'T parlor, and kitchen, and hall.' 

anf^ii^f ^;v^:i^;'' "^""^' "^^ ''^^ ^^^ -- -- g-^ ---y 

Gran. ' Ko coin in his pocket, no care in his pate 
ISO ambition had he, nor duns at his gate.' 

Derry down.' 
Mat. The old woman died wlien thej were verv vouncr 
bran. But love, the disturber of high and of low ' " 
Jhai. And poor Phebe and George went to the workhouse. 
(^>an. [Stepping shqrt in his song.] Hey ! Phebe and George ! 
[Locks earnesthj at Matty, ^vho ivith the utmost simplicity, appears to 
hepn.hingihestoryoi,tofhis own head-he feels vexed iZt he 
hasst02.ped to hsien to hira, and proceeds 2cith his ditty 

Gran. ' That shoots at sl.-e peasant as well as the beau ' 

J/«^ George went to sea, and Phebe to service; after some rears 
miraculously meet, and Piiel)e's eyes ^ 

Oran. ' Shot the poor cobbler right tlirough the heart.* 
JIat. //^r eyes did f„r George, and thev were to be married I sav 
lalve care^of your lame leg,-it struck me here. '"^^"<^«- ■• ^ay, 

Gran. ' I wish it had struck some more ignorant pari,. 

Perry down.* 



THE miller's maid. 21" 

3Tat. Well, coming to be married — Parson asks their names, and it 
turns out that George Granger 

Gran. What! 

Mat. Was to be married to Pliebe Granger. 

Gran. [In a hurried and wild manner.] George Granger I — Phebe 
Grander ! 

Mat. Brother and sister. W^asn't it surprising 7 Bless me, vlij- he's 
struck like a statty. Oli, I saj-, what you find it interesting to you % 

Gran. I do, indeed — astonishing ! 

Mai. Well, I'm sure, it's a wonder you confess it, after interrupting 
me in the unpolite way you did, by singing during my composition. 

Gran. [Much agitated.] Your composition — impossible! it; can- 
not be. 

Mat. There, there— nobody will give me credit for mv tale, till they 
begin to feel the effects of it ; but after this, I think it a'nt to be with- 
stood with impunity. 

Gran. After so long a search, thus to hear of them— and in such a 
manner, as almost still to disbelieve my senses. Oh, if not true, I shall 
indeed go mad. 

Mat. Well, if my first story has such astonishing effects, I don't 
know what will become of jjcoples senses if I write often : however, 
now I'm satisfied I have a genius. AVonderful man ! I've a head— 
I've a tale— I'm an author! [Exit, l. h. 

Gran. Yes, yes, my heart tells me it is true, and I shall '.«-e"e my 
children once again. Young man, lead me, I entreat you to them. A 
father begs. [Turning around.] How— gone ! Surely what has pas.^ed 
is not a dream 1 No, no, no ; and yet so strangely told ! My poor old 
heart must surely wander 7 No it Vs true. Heaven defend mv poor 
weak brain— I know not what to think. Oh, gracious Power above ! 
direct me to the spot where I shall find my children, or my grave. 

[JExit, L. u. 

SCENE 11.—^ room at the Miller's. 

Enter Phebe, l. h 

Fhehe. What can George mean 7 Though fostered beneath one roof, 
yet not the children of the same parents. Oh, my brother, you have 
raided commotions liere wliich it may be wrong to cherish, and yet 
noi right to check. Giles as a husband, I felt I could not love— as a 

brother I can esteem him ; but George, as a brother, as a hus Let 

me proceed no further; if true fortitude consists in hearing eveiy 
change of fortune with equanimity, and true happiness be the art of 
considering for the best every occurrence of life, I will instruct my 
heart this lesson, that it may regain its peace. 

Enter Giles and Dame, l. h. 

Dame. But why so hasty, Giles 1 
Giles. I have my reasons for it. 
Dame. What reasons 1 



22 THE MILLEE S MAID. 

CHhs. "What 1 why t'will set my mind at rest, that's one reason ; 
and with nie a strong one. Besides 

Dame. Well, there she be. Go and speak to her. 

Giles. No — do thee, Dame; 'Iwill be better. 

Dame. What shall I say % 

Giles. Why, I want to know whether she means to keep her word : 
and as she can't have George, to marry me. 

Dame. You are too hasty. Well, well, I'll see. Phebe, child, here 
be Giles come to — to make you — no, he exjjects you — that is, ho 
hopes vSpeak, Giles ; what is it you hope for "J 

Giles. Wliy to be happy, to be sure. 

Fhehs. I hope you will, Giles. 

Giles. Thankee ; and so will you, I hope ; and if you are, I know 
I shall be. 

Dame. So you will both, if you do but love each other. 

Giles. I'm sure I do Phebe, if she loves me. 

Phebe. As a brother, Giles, I hope I always shall. 

Giles. No, no — you have one already. Love George as a brother, 
me as your husband. 

Phebe. Husband 1 — You 1 Giles, I will not dissemble with you; I 
feel I never can 

Giles. How ? dost mean to break thy word 1 Both the miller and 
his dame ijere, were witness to tliy promise. 

Phebe. Promise! Did 1 1 did I? [Flying to her mistress.] No, no, 
no, you did not hear such promise : nor Giles will not, I am sure, in- 
sist upon it. 

GVies. Pardon me, Phebe ; but your fulfiling it be the only thing 
in lile to me worth living for. Indeed, I do expect it. 

Phebe. What ] if I — if I could not love you, Giles 1 

Giles. Oh, but thou wilt in time ; so say at once — when wilt mar- 
ry me. 

Enter George, l. h., hastily. 

Geo. Never! 

Giles. 'Tis false ! she will — she shall — in spite of thee. 

Geo. Phebe, do you assent to this 1 

Phebe. Oh, George, — ray brother! [Throwing herself into his arms. 

Geo. Nay, nay, Phebe, he shall not thus distress you. Giles, you 
have had your answer — she cannot love, and will not marry you. 

Gihs. Dost thou hope to hinder her 7 Not though thou be'st her 
brother, shalt thee make her break her promise — she's mine, my wife I 

Geo. How ] 

Giles. As good — that is, if her word be worth the having : — as it 
always were, till you seduced her to break it. 

Geo. [Enraged and threatening.] Seducei ! 

Giles. Aye, I care not for thy looks : and if the girl didn't hang upon 
thy arm, I warrant thee should feel a heavier weight. 

Geo. Go with thy mistress, Phebe. Good madam, take her hence. 

Phebe. [Recovering herself.] No, no, no. George — Giles, wherefore 



THB miller's maid. 23 

will ye quarrel thus 1 let mo intreat. Nay, Ihon — do either of you 
love me ] [Firmly. 

Giles Yon know. ^ ^^^;^ ^^ ^^j^^^ 

Geo. Phebe. •■ ^ 

Phebe. Then heed me well. You may be both my friends — my 
brotbers — but tbe man who first strikes the blow of enmity, shall ne- 
ver be my husband. 

Elder Miller, r. n., and crosses to Phebe. 

Mil. "Well said, my girl. If tbe women do sometimes set the men a 
quarrelling, they know how to make peace, I see. 

Dame. Thy husband, child ! 'Tis Giles only can be that. 

Mil. As far as we know yet ; but George has been telling me, he 
has strong reasons to believe he is not her brother. 

Giles. Because he has stronger wishes to be her husband. Shame 
upon him. 

Mil. Giles, hear them before thee judgest : but as I would not listen 
to tliem but in presence of you all, 1 now call upon him to produce 
his proofs. [Crosses to George. 

Geo. I must confess I have no living proofs that I am not what I 
have been always called — her brother. 

Fhche. No proofs 1 How George — no proofs ? Then wherefore sus^ 
pect you were not ] 

Giles. Oh, I suspect the reason, clear enough. 

Mil. I hope not. Proceed, George. 

Phebe. Do, I beseech you. 

Geo. My suspicions rest upon a dying mother's words. 

Phebe. My mother's dying words 1 Oh. speak them, George. T was 
too young to note them in my memory, tho' not to mark the wretched 
change her death brought on us both. Speak — what were they 1 

Geo. ' Do not separate the children at my death,' she cried, — ' they 
are not both mine, but ' 

Phebe. [In great agitation.] But what? but what? 

Geo. That word, Phebe, was my mother's last. No light, has since 
my lapse of time, been thrown upon her meaning ; but yet, from this 
I have a hope that thou art not my sister. 

Mil. And nought but these words to rest on, to deny thy kindred "? 
and even thee so yOung, thee might mistake their import. 

Dame. In truth, George, thy suspicions are but slender founded. 

Giles. Aye, but his hopes be strong. 1 tell thee, he would marry her. 

Mil. I don't believe it. 

Giles. He don't deny it. 

Mil. What you'd imply, he does — that he has started these objec- 
tions for a base purpose. No, no, -it be too shameful e'en to think upon. 
Giles, thy jealousy has blinded thee ; but remember, I am free from 
passion, and can see clearer. Nay, I hope 1 shall never be so far 
biass'd by it, as to impute the worst motives to a fellow creature's 
conduct, till I Isave full proof they are the true ones. 

Dame. Right, Gilbert — right ! and I have a hope, that Providence 
will still point out a way to lead us to the truth. 



24 TUB miller's maid. 

Phebe. It will, it will. Yes, yes, it shall be so my good friends, — 
as brother and sister — (^for till we have stronger proofs against the tie 
we will be known as such.) With your permission we will seek our 
native village, where surely some one will remember us. Some one 
still exists who can recall ourselves and parents to their recollection, 
and declare our birth. Oh, yes, I feel assured there does ; I feel con- 
vinced that Providence — which in our infant orphan state befriended 
us, and when asunder, protected and restored us to each other — v\ill 
not now forsake, if but by honest and by patient means we seek th*? 
road to happiness. 

Geo. It shall be so — if we have, sir, your leave ; nor will I rest un- 
til our errand be accomplished. 

Mil. Children, we shall grieve to part with ye — but, in truth, I see 
no other way ; and Dame and I will never have it said we set our own 
desires 'twixt thee and happiness. 

Giles. What, wilt suffer them to go together 1 

Mil. Certainly, 'tis necessary to But what ails thee i 

Giles. Nothing particular; only I were going to say that don't 

you see that this be only a but I won't say what, you'll only call it 

jealousy again. 

Mil. [Aside.] Likely! What do'st mean 1 speak out. 

Giles. I mean, if he once gets away, they wont come back again. 

Mil. Then sin and shame go with them. But no, they dare not — 
the shame is thine for thinking so. 

Geo. We must set forth this instant — I cannot rest nor live in this 
anxiety. 

Mil. True, the sooner ended will be the best for all — therefore to- 
night ye shall set forth. 

Giles. [Aside.] To-night 1 Ha ! upon the road I'll do't— I'll do't. 

[Rushing out, d. f. 

Dame. Come, Phebe, thee and I must have some chat before thee 
goest, and thou wilt list, I know, unto a friend's advice. 

Phebe. As unto a parent's ; and be the result of our journey what 
it may, before you all I pledge myself, if I return not sister, I will not 
wife. You, sir, have a father's right in the disposal of my hand, it 
shall never be given but in unison with your wishes. 

[Exit Phebe and Dame, r. h. 

Mil. Bless thee ! bless thee ! Oh, George — this parting with thee 
and that wench, I feel, deprives me of half my existence. Asain I 
become childless — pshaw ! and a child too myself I find, [ \fiping his 
eyes.] But it must be so — thy happiness demands that we should sep- 
arate for a time. I will furnish thy journey for thee ; and in busying 
myself in preparations for thy welfare, I shall best provide my own. 
Be that thy precept, lad, through life; and learn that Providence, 
who do lead by various ways to happiness, do make the power of be- 
stowing it on our fellow creatures, the supremest point of its enjoy- 
ment to ourselves. Uxit with George^ d. p. 



Tnn 5irLLER's maip. 25 

SCENE III. — A rural landscape. 

Enter Matty, l. h. 

Mat. Bless me ! I can't eet any body to write tliis history for me. 
What a pity it should be lost !— wonderful the effect it had upon that 
old soldier. Hey, what's thaf? Why, lauk, if there an't somethincr 
red rolling about under that hedge. Well, I declare, if it an't himl 
If he can be kept from fainting away at all the interesting parts, he 
shall write the whole tale for me. Poor soul ! how he lie's moan'in«r 
ar.d groaning. There! now he's singing. Well, my tale must cer- 
tainly be a gift. 

Enter Old Granger, r. h. 

Gran. This lad's strange story runs so wildly in my head, that I al- 
most doubt wether my imagination, which is always brooding over 
my children's fate, has not deceived me in every dream. I'll to the 
hamlet, and study every female face for a semblance to Phebe's mo- 
ther. Ha ! the youth again ! then 'twas no dream, 'twas real ! unless 
mdeed, I am again deceived by unsubstantial vision. Of that I'll soon 
be satisfied. 

[Comes behind Matty, and grasps him firmly by the arm.— he turns 

around alarmed. 

Mat. What ? Bless me ! what's that for 1 Dear me, if it isn't the 
madman. Lord ! how he looks. 

Gran. [Still grasping him.] No, no, 'twas not a dream. 

Mat Dream ! bless you, you are wide awake, for you stare most 
horribly. 

Gran. I grasp a substantial form ! 

Mat. Yes, you do; and a most substantial grasp vou keen —He 
frightens me out of my wits ! r ^ f 

Gran. Harkee ! not half an hour since, on this spot, you met me 
here to-day before. 

Mat. Oh, you remember that interview '? Poor soul ! 

(?m?i. Remember it! is has almost driven me mad. 

Mat. You'd say quite if you were in your senses. 

Gran. You told me then 

^7at. What, you want to hear my tale again 7 

Gran. No, but tell me— was it true 7 

Mat. Every .word— and all of my own invention. 

Gran. Was it then mere invention 1 

^/a;!. Mere invention ! could you invent such a one? [Contemptu- 
ously.] Mere invention indeed ! I'm an author. 

Gran. Answer me this moment. Was it truth or fiction ^ 

.Vat. [Aside.] Mustn't say it's true, or I shall lose the credit of it 
truth vou knowY '''''° ^"""'"^ together. But it 7night have been the 

Gran. It might— I feel it might. 

Mat, And very natural— wasn't it ? 



26 



THE culler's maid. ' 



MaThl^lhnVrfnst like me -I'm very natural myself. I'm a won- 

''"''G'mjrSo much so, tliat I must doubt your skill to put this tale to- 

rretliev without some portion of it drawn Irom truth. 

" Mai. Doubt me, do you 1 Bless you, you don't know my invention^ 

rve just finislied it in mv own mind ; and seemg you have helped me 

to a goxl thought Will you hear the finish 1 

Gran. Willingly. j u i 

3Iut. Stand further off then, and compose yourself don t be agi- 

^^^Gran. 'Sdeath and furv ! trifle no longer with my feelings, or Til 

level vouand vour invention fiat with the groiind yju,fP^-^^g /,V,«™' 

Mat Bless me ! he loams at the mouth already. Well, well, 1 1 go 

on— but first, wliere did I leave off 1— oh, at the marriage,— where 

Pliebe and George turn out to be brother and sister. 

Gran. [AlM^.^t breathless.] .4re they married 1 

Mat. [ Verj/ calmly.] Why, I'm considering whether I shall marry 

them or not, till 

Gra7i. Damnation ! Are they married or not j 
Mat. Now really you'll spoil the whole story, if you don t rcstram 
your feelings a little. I pity you, for I know you must be agitated— 

but contain yourself . . ., j 

Gran. I can't, a moment longer, unlessyou instant-ly Pyoce^ed 
3Iat. Well, then, we'll say they are married ; it will make the thmg 
appear more horrid, you know. 

Gran. By all that's sacred, if I don't ^ . v, v * t 

Mat. Bless me, he's raving ! Well, well, I'll make a finish, but I 
must prepare you for a striking scene. 

Gran, f Grasping his cane.] Prepare yourself for one. 

3fat. After they are married and living happy, the old father shall 

iust then come home from the wars . • x 

Gran Shall he 1 [Aside.] Humph ! many a true word spoken in jest. 
Mat Well, now mark— now you'll be affected— now you 11 be deeply 
acritated. He comes home, and discovers to them they are brother 
and sii:ter ! The old man goes mad— the husband hangs himself— the 
wife strangles her child, and throws herself in the river. There ! there 
now-theie'sascene! there's distress ! [Aside.] This, I think must 
kill the old man outright, hey '? [Turns around to mark the e^ffect of 
his tale, and finds that Granger has hurst into an xTnmoderate Jit oj 
laughter. 

Gran. The old man goes mad. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Mat. Poor soul ! Well, if my tale has this efiect on the tough heart 
of a soldier, I don't know what will become of the ladies, i tremoie 

to think of them. 

aran. And the wife drowns herself. Ha! ha! ha! 

3Iat. I'm shocked ! W^ell, if this is the consequence of writing ai- 
fecting histories, I'd better give over, before half the ^'orjd go out ol 
their senses. Eeally, my tale's enormous! it frightens folks to lits. 
I'll alter it, shorten it— get another. Yes, I'll go and 



THE miller's maid. 27 

Gran. [Seizing him hy the collar.] Not -without me this time. — 
Come, sir, lead to George and Pliebc. No more deceptions ! 

[Threatening with his foot. 

Mat. [Shriyiking .] Oh, my tale ! 

Gran. Curse your tale. If you don't this instant bring me to them 
I'll — I will. Along, then ! along, 1 say, or — [Exit, driving him off, r. n. 

SCEXE IV. — The same as Scene /., Act I. — Evening — Twilight and. 
Setting Sun, which, giving a different tint to every feature of the 
landscape, varift materially its former appearance. 

Music- Enter Gamekeeper and Giles, 2 e. l. h. 

Game. Haste ! haste ! I tell you, or she \vili escape us. [Looks 
through the ivindoiv of Miller^ s house.] Ko, she is noAV equipping for 
her j'.jurney, and conies this Avay alone. Heyday, in a brown study. 

Giles. [Xot heeding him.] 'Twill break her heart, poor thing. 

Game, [sneeringly] Break her heart. "Well, then, break your own, 
and tamely give her up to George ; because you haven't spirit enough 
to take hit: from him. Pho ! pho ! conceal yourself until she has 
passed th t >)ridge. She comes ! away, away ! 

[Hurrief ff Giles, l. h. u. e., and Puebe, equipped for her journey, 
comes from, the Miller's house, r. it. 

Phebfi. I have hastened before George, who still lingers behind with 
our bo'ie factors, to enjoy one more glance at the most favored scenes of 
childhood belore I quit them. Farewell, my earliest friends ! Fare- 
^•'M^ ye dumb but breathing scenes, Avhose wafted greetings I have 
6 "a, iLi many an evening's breeze. 

SONG—Phebe. 

Farewell ! loved happy scenes, farewell! 

Should I no more your freedom share ; 
Yet long my grateful heart shall tell, 

What first brought me a stranger here. 

Genius of the forest shades, -"v 

Lend thy power and lend thine ear ; 
Let dreams still lengthen thy long glades, 

And bring thy peace and silence here. 

[She exits to symphony of song, across the bridge, r. and off -l. lidding 
farewell to the house andtlioseivithin — as she passes it, Gamekeeper 
Coynes forward, and observes her, 2d e. l. h. 

Game. Aye, take your leave, damsel, for you'll never see them again 
nor either of your booby lovers. Now she is far enough, I must has- 
ten and secure her e'erGlles prevents me. I must lure him to the 
spot though, that he may bear the blame of her departure. 

[Music. — Beckons Giles, and exit after Phebe over bridge. 



28 THE miller's maid. 

Enter Giles, 2d e. l. h. cdlling after Gamekeeper. 

Giles. Mind ! mind thee don't use her ill, I say ! She shall not slip 
lis, thoujih. No, no, George, Phebe's not for thee— I'll take cave of 

that. Dang me first, if 1 wouldn't no, no, I mustn't use her ill 

[Follows their track over bridge. 

Filter Miller, Dame, a7id George, r. h. house. 

Mil George, lad, thy hand. There! [Shakes hand.] I won't say 
good bye— but— God bless thee, lad ! 

Geo/ Farewell ! to boUi. 

Daine. No, no— not so : I shall only say 

3Ial. [Without.] Oh, my tale! 

Gran. [ Without, l. h. 1st e.] Where are they, booby 1 Where is my 
George and Phebe 1 

Enter Granger, l. h. 1st e. dragging in Matty. 

Geo. What do I hear'? George and Phebe who 1 

Gran. Granger— ray children. Where are they 1 

Mil. Here is George Granger. 

Gran. [Throwing away his crutch, which strikes Matty.] My boy ! 

my boy ! and after so many years, do I then huzza ! I m not dead 

you see, though you long thought me so. 

Mat. What a pity ! Oh, he should have died— it spoils the story. 
Ah, I see how it is— his living so long will shorten my tale. 

Gran. But what the deuce ails you 1 you don't seem glad to - 

But Where's my other child ! Zounds ! I want to cry for joy ; but 1 
won't till I've found you both. [Hums a tune. 

Dame. [To Miller.] Did he say he was father to them bothl 

Mil. Ask him— I don't like. 

Geo. [Aside.] Now comes the truth— but yet I dread to inquire. ^ 

Gran. But how is this 1 how glum you all look ! Mahap you don't 
believe me % however I'll soon prove— or has any thing happened 1 
Where's mv child I say '? 

Geo. Here, father, to ask your blessing. 

Gran. There ! there ! but I don't mean yow— [Grasping his hand.] 
yet you are— but, zounds and the devil ! where's my real child, Phebe 1 

Geo. [Elated.] What, then, am I not your son 1 

Gran. To be sure vou are [George hangs his head.]— by adoption. 
[George again appears elated.] Hey ! why what faces ! Oh, aye, aye, 
I recollect. Set thy heart at rest, my lad,— thou art my sisters son, 
not mine. 

Geo. Not. Let me hasten to inform Phebe. Perhaps she may not 
yet have left the mill. [Runs in calling.] Phebe ! Phebe ! 

Mil. This ends all anxiety. 

Mat. Yes and my tale. 

Gran. But, zounds ! I say where is she 1 Avhere's my girl 7 

[Phebe heard to scream without, L. H. 

Mat. T.^lk of the devil— that's Phebe ! 

Mil. Hark ! what scream was that 7 sure not 



THE miller's MAT.D. 29 

Mat, I'll rnn and sec. A scream ! how lucky ! I hadn't one in tho 
■whole story. A loud scream ! charming ! Well, mine will certainly 
turn out an interestinsf tale, after all [Runs of over bridge, l. h 

Geo. Sure it was Phebe's voice. 

[One of the Miller's men appear at the aperture of the Mill, l. n. 

3Ian. iNIaster ! yonder I see Giles struggling with another man and — 

Mil. ButPhebel 

Man. She is with them too. 

I\Ht. Are they in anger *? 

Man. At downright blows, master. Now, Giles snaps off the branch 
of a ti'ee, and with it fells the other to the grouiid— now he seizes 
Phebe, who is fainting in his arms, and bears her off this Avay ! 

\ Music. — Giles appears ttpon Bridge, l.ti., with Piiebe in his arms, — 
his clothes in disorder and torn, and brandishing the branch of a 
tree — presents a ferocious appearance — George rushes from the cot- 
tage— he keeps him at bay with his staff, till he reaches the front of 
the stage, occupying one side in an attitude of defiance — tlie charac- 
ters form a picture as the music ceases. 

Geo. Yield her to me, ruffian. She is my wife. 

Gran. To me — to me — she is my child ! 

Giles. Stand off! she's mine. I saved — fought for — will die for her. 

3JiL Giles ! Nay, I lear not thy ferocious looks. See yon aged 
maimed soldier! deprived of home— of ofispring— for njany a year; 

and now he's panting to embrace Say can you longer keep a father 

from his child 1 [Phebc here appears recovering. 

Gran. Phebe I my child ! ^ 

Phebe. Ha ! > In a breath, 

Giles. Her father'? ) 

Phebe. No, no, no, — did he— did he say, father 1 

Giles. And George's too 7 

Gran. No, no, she is my child— my onlj^ child ! 

Phebe. [Rushing to him.] Ah, my dear, dear [Restrained by 

Giles.] Wiiy, didn'st hear 7 it is— it is my father ! you will not keep 
me from him 1 

Geo. He shall not. Villain ! 

Phebe. He is noiie. He saved, fought for, and deliveied me from a 
villian. Touch him not ; nor you [To Giles, whose arm and staff are 
raised against George [Giles! Giles! [In a playful manner attempts 
to divert his anger. She by degrees, as she is conversing tcith him,, 
draws the iveaponfrorn his hold.] Nay, nay, you look'd thus angry 
when you fought for me ; but now we are amongst friends look kinder. 
Giles, — come, 'tis Phebe asks this. You'll give it me — there! [Throw- 
ing it on the ground, and appealing to George.] Now touch him, if 
you can ; he has been my shield, and I will now be his. 1 know his 
heart is good — and that I'll trust. Come, Giles, as you were my de- 
liverer, you only shall deliver me to my father's arras. Nay, I'll suf- 
fer no one else but thee. Come wilt thee not 1 



80 TnE miller's maid. 

Giles. And to thy husband 1 

Phehe. And wliy not ? — thy heart is capable even of that. Roirse 
thee ! we ail must struggle to be virtuous ; but every Ijonest heart v i'l 
conquer at the last — and so will yours. Come, come! [lie hesita r 
for a moment, then presses her in his arms ; at length turns to Oeci ■ 
who views him tcith angry locks. 

Giles. Thee need'st not envy me, 'tis my first ; and must — aye, a , 
shall be my last. [Kisses her.\ 'Tis dearly earned — thee need'st i . 
envy me. There ! there ! better I should lose her than a father, Ta 
thy child old man, — there — take her, take her. 

[Puis her in, his arms and crosses. 

Phehe. My dear, dear father ! [Embracing. 

Geo. [To Giles whom he has followed.} Giles, will you not give i '. 
your handl 

Giles. No, not now — not now. 

Phehe. [Running to him and taking his hand.} Yes. now. Wha 
yield when half the victory is won 1 be firm, and you will conqu< 
Giles; and all who conquer in a cause like this, cannot fail of ha 
piness. 

Giles. [Fi'mly.] At least I wish it thee; for though I've a tou, •. 
heart, it may break yet, I hope it may. [Siglis. 

Phehe. No, no, no, 

Giles. [Proudly.] And if it do, I can die without envying thee ■>! 

him ; if not — why— I can — 1 will, live without bitterness to Ble's 

you, then — bless yon both, 

[Joins their hands, and rushes out, l. h, Ist E. 

Gran. Amen! a father's amen rest upon it. 

Phehe. George not yon r son] 

Mil. No.— But that llmu shalt hear anon : meantime, I adopt h 
mine. Take him, girl ! and with him, accept the mill. In giving it . 
become onlj' an instrument in rewarding 

THE VIRTUOUS DAUGHTER, IX THE MILLEe'S MAID. 



DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS. 

R. H. I'- H- 

MILLER. GRAKGEB. PHEBE. GEOBaE. DAMB. 



